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      October 10, 2008VigilanceSam Hamill

      Trees, shrubs, grass—everything
      glistened in late February frost
      as first rays of sunlight
      filtered through the woods.
      I stood at the window,
      coffee mug in hand,
      and watched the first spring robin
      hop and scratch and eat,
      scratch and eat, first under
      lace-leaf maples, then
      along the edge of the path
      that leads out
      to my studio. I watched,
      for almost an hour,
      a happy bird enjoy a feast.
      And for an hour, I put
      away all thoughts
      of our president in Europe
      renewing threats,
      put away all thoughts of
      people decimated
      by a great tsunami,
      or of the latest casualties
      in Iraq. Enough of that.
      Give me
      one moment with a robin
      and a sunrise,
      late winter’s harsh yellow light,
      and crack
      of frozen gravel underfoot
      as I go out to work—
      frightening off the bird—
      a little wonder
      in a suffering world,
      a little delight
      in a world of pain.
      And then begin again.

      Sam Hamill

      “I grew up on a ranch in Utah, a farm in Utah, and my old man, my adopted father, loved poetry. And he would sometimes recite poetry while he worked. And he would explain to me, the rhythm of the work would help you decide what poem to sort of say. The way you sometimes hum or sing when you work—well, he recited poetry that way, and I think that was what first turned me on to poetry.”

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